


The Arts of Flower Arranging

by bendingsignpost



Series: Tumblr Fic [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drawing, Florist Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Tattoo Artist Dean Winchester, Tattooed Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 10:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18313538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: “Can I draw your plants?”“Can you...” Castiel drags his eyes away from the myriad of intersecting geometric patterns etched across the man’s arms. “What?”The man holds up his notebook. “Can I draw your plants? I won’t get in the way.” He offers his free hand with an irresistible grin. “I’m Dean.”And that’s how it starts.





	The Arts of Flower Arranging

**Author's Note:**

> [daughter-of-the-rain-and-snow](http://daughter-of-the-rain-and-snow.tumblr.com/) said:  
> For the prompt-ask-thingy.. what about a tattoo shop au or I'm.. gardener/gardening au one..

“Can I draw your plants?”

“Can you...” Castiel drags his eyes away from the myriad of intersecting geometric patterns etched across the man’s arms. “What?”

The man holds up his notebook. “Can I draw your plants? I won’t get in the way.”

Almost surprised to have heard him correctly the first time, Castiel replies the only way he can think of: “Why?”

“Because I need to work on drawing plants?” the man asks right back. Without turning around, he points over his shoulder out the shop window. “I work at the tattoo parlor at the corner. Spring time, we’re getting more requests for flower stuff, and I gotta practice. Can I? Here?”

Trapped in the post-Valentines lull with only a modest amount of Easter orders to concern himself with, Castiel looks around his otherwise empty shop. “All right,” he says. 

“Awesome,” the man says, grinning hugely, irresistibly. He offers his hand. “I’m Dean.”

And that’s how it starts. 

 

 

When Dean comes to draw, he brings pens, a sketchbook, and masking tape. Absolute concentration on his features, he circles Castiel’s displays. He draws first in his notebook the scratch of his pen slow and steady. 

(Castiel asks, once, why Dean uses pen to sketch. Dean answers, “Because it has to be right the first time.”)

Once Dean’s satisfied, he rips out a fresh piece of paper and tapes it tightly around his left arm. Sometimes, when Castiel loans him a stool to sit on, Dean uses his thigh instead. Dean draws curves of ink along the curves of flesh. 

(“What’s this one called?” Dean asks a lot. Castiel answers every time, almost to the point of wondering whether Dean’s quizzing him, or simply making conversation.)

On the occasions Castiel has a potential customer wander in, Dean’s behavior varies. Initially, he stayed out of the way, but as he works his way through his sketchbook, he increasingly joins Castiel at the counter to show off older examples no longer on display. Sometimes, typically to awed young women impressed with his work or anyone sporting a tattoo, Dean tugs out a drawing and hands it over.

(Dean asks about the meanings of flowers, and there, Castiel can’t truly answer. “Love,” he says of roses and most things pink. “Spring,” he says of tulips. “Death,” he says of marigolds and lilies. “Friendship,” he calls a daisy. “ _Expensive,_ " he calls an iris, and Dean laughs beautifully.)

There comes a day when Dean runs out of tape, or forgets it. He draws in his sketchbook as per usual and, once satisfied, pats his jacket pocket. And then his jeans pocket. He pats all of his pockets, and sighs, and begins to leave. “Wait,” Castiel says, rolling up his sleeve. 

(“Think this one’s done for it,” Dean tells him, nevertheless diligently sketching a wilting bouquet, a victim of too much direct sunlight. “What do you do with all the old ones anyway?” Rather than explain aloud, Castiel invites Dean to return after work, and Dean helps him carry this week’s donations to this week’s destination: a nursing home. Next week, they go to the hospital. The next, an assisted living center. The next, a rehab clinic.)

Each day, bouquets bloom along Castiel’s arm, tendrils of ink twining over his wrist and over his elbow. Flowers erupt across his skin, each minute flaw in every petal rendering them all the more realistic. One slow afternoon, they wrap a length of ivy around Castiel’s right arm and Dean replicates it on his left, vines of green growing as if through a magic mirror. Dean’s hand are steady, but sometimes, his breathing is not. 

(”You’re getting very good,” Castiel tells him more than once, the words an act of cowardice. Dean is more than good. Dean knows flowers by shapes and names and all angles, in all states of health. For all Dean practices and practices, he certainly no longer needs to. But whenever Castiel compliments him, Dean simply focuses anew on his paper—or upon Castiel’s arm—and mutters something about needing more practice.)

In the summer, Castiel dyes white roses rainbow. He arranges bouquets across the color spectrum, and in accordance with certain flags. When Dean enters, he sighs, clearly aggrieved, and before Castiel can take offense, Dean asks in a voice so tired and jaded, “Cashing in on Pride, huh?” Castiel shakes his head and corrects him: he’s celebrating. 

(“Would you ever get a tattoo?” Dean asks. Castiel shakes his head no, but what he means is,  _If I did, you couldn’t draw on me every day._ Dean looks disappointed, but never asks again.)

Fall approaches, tormenting the flowers with cold rather than heat, and Dean avidly sketches the changes. Castiel avidly watches, rolling up his sleeves in anticipation, but Dean draws on him less, more mindful of Castiel’s personal space, less willing to ask the small, artistic gift of a favor. 

(A regular customer—a funeral home director—smiles when she sees Dean, and she tells Castiel she wishes her own husband could show as much attentiveness to her work as Dean does to Castiel’s. Castiel corrects her: Dean isn’t his husband, or even his romantic partner. Clearly embarrassed by the director’s mistake, Dean says nothing.)

Dean comes less often. For the first time in months, Castiel transports his wilting donations on his own. 

And that is how it nearly ends. 

 

 

When Castiel can stand it no longer—the emptiness of his shop between customers, the silence Dean’s quiet presence used to fill—Castiel closes up shop early. He purchases supplies and returns, only to walk around the corner and into the tattoo parlor. 

“Dean’s busy,” says a woman in the front. 

“I can wait,” Castiel says, and does. 

When Dean finally emerges over an hour later, he looks at Castiel with surprise, although he must have been told Castiel was waiting. 

Castiel puts his phone away and stands up. He means to say something eloquent, or at least passably normal, but what comes out is, “I’m taking you home tonight.” 

“You’re...”

“To my home,” Castiel clarifies. “Or to your home, but I’m coming with you.”

Eyes wide, Dean nods. “I’ll drive? You can follow in yours.”

“No,” Castiel says. “I’m parked behind my store. You can drive me to work in the morning.”

Dean’s eyes go even wider. 

Heart trembling a rapid beat, Castiel says nothing further. He raises his chin. He holds his ground. 

“...Yeah,” Dean says. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Castiel says. “I have a few things I need to get out of my car, then.”

 

 

Dean takes him home—to Dean’s home—and Castiel pulls the cheap sheet out of its packaging. He hands Dean the body paints and the brushes, and then he strips down to just his pants and socks before Dean can do more than gape. 

The sheet goes over the floor, spread across Dean’s tiny living room. Dean perches on the coffee table and directs Castiel to turn this way and that. When Castiel shivers, Dean stands to turn up the thermostat. When Castiel keeps shivering anyway, perhaps Dean starts to understand. 

A garden takes root around his waist. Sunflowers race up his spine. Lilacs spill down his shoulders, tumbling over foxgloves. Dean takes pictures on his phone and shows them all to Castiel. Dean paints and paints until no skin is left, save that of Castiel’s face and the palms of his hands. 

Then, taking a deep breathing, Castiel unfastens his pants. He kicks them off and removes his socks. 

Bidding Castiel to sit on the coffee table, Dean kneels. He paints. He swirls roots, deep and dark, and he entwines them around geometric patterns reminiscent of those around his own arms. But these, these are no mere shapes: here are gems, buried beneath the ground. Dean traces the lines, tracks root to flower, and matches them accordingly. 

The lilacs sprout from amethyst, the sunflowers from topaz. Ruby roses and bluebell sapphires. Emeralds, scattered everywhere. 

Dean dries the paint with warm breaths. He instructs Castiel to stand, takes more pictures. Takes video, circling Castiel, grinning as Castiel moves and stretches for him.

“I don’t want to smudge it,” Dean says, his hands hovering above Castiel’s marked and prickling skin. 

Castiel has no such reservations regarding Dean’s tattooed arms. He pulls Dean to him, and Dean pulls the rest of the way. “You’ll have to do it again,” Castiel tells him between one kiss and the next. 

They shower Castiel clean, then dirty, then clean once more. 

And that’s how it begins anew. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [PallasPerilous](http://pallasperilous.tumblr.com/) for her fantastic art of Cas, I friggin' love it.
> 
> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/) or [dreamwidth here](http://https://bendingsignpost.dreamwidth.org/).


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